Night Call
by MyLittleYellowBird
Summary: Shelagh and Patrick's evening is interrupted when Patrick is called out to a patient. This is my first fanfic, so forgive my ignorance of protocol, procedures, etc. Obviously only borrowing my favs for a bit. They live comfortably with Neal Street Productions.
1. Chapter 1

"You're on call tonight. What if the telephone rings?" Shelagh protested weakly.

"It won't tonight. I feel lucky," Patrick grinned.

"That's what you always say." But his hands were convincing, and she didn't really want to resist.

The phone rang out in the dark. Shelagh stirred first, "I told you so. You get dressed. I'll answer it."

Patrick grunted as he rolled out of their bed. "Not so lucky, tonight, I guess. I'll have to make it up to you."

Shelagh smiled as she wrapped her dressing gown around her waist, starting for the stairs. The phone shrilled through the quiet house, and she quickened her steps. Timothy wasn't at his best when abruptly awakened.

"Turner residence, how can I help you?" she spoke into the phone.

Moments later, Patrick came down the steps, clumsily tying his tie.

"Where to?"

"Mafeking Buildings. I'm afraid." The old tenement was nearly as far as Patrick would go on a call, and not known for its friendly residents. "Sally Hawn. She's dislocated her shoulder. Patrick, I think it's likely"

"Yes, I know. Her husband? Not the first time, I'm afraid."

"And if he's still there, he'll probably be drunk. Patrick, I don't like this. I'm calling the police station**.** I don't want you going in there alone." The crease above Shelagh's nose deepened in her concern.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll be fine. Home in a jiffy," he winked, kissed her cheek and was out the door. "Go back and keep my bed warm!"

* * *

Patrick saw the young constable before he climbed out of the car. "My wife called?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Said you needed back up for a difficult call. She's little, your wife, but she's a fierce one, ain't she sir?" The young man grinned, "And I'd lose more than a night's sleep if my missus found out I didn't jump when Mrs. Turner called."

"Don't I know it?" Patrick laughed. "Well, if it's a dislocated shoulder, I'll probably need you to help."

"Right, sir."

The door was ajar, and Patrick called out, "Hello, Dr. Turner here. May we come in?"

He could hear quiet crying coming from the room, and pushed the door open. Sally Hawn sat at the table, cradling her left arm. An older woman stood above her.

"Thank goodness. He's done a nasty turn this time. She's in terrible pain, doctor."

"Right. I'll have to move your arm a bit, I'm afraid, Mrs. Hawn. This is going to hurt quite a lot." Patrick gingerly moved her arm as he examined the shoulder joint. He felt the young woman stiffen in pain, but she made no sound. He had seen a dislocated shoulder turn taciturn dockers into crying children, but her lack of response did not surprise him. Circumstances had forced her to develop a high pain tolerance.

"You were right, it is dislocated. The good news is I can take care of this fairly quickly, Mrs. Hawn. Bad news, I'm afraid, is that this will hurt very much. But only for a few moments. Once we get the joint back in, all you'll feel is a bit of tenderness. Constable, if you could stand here and follow my instructions completely…"

The shoulder slipped back in quickly, and he could feel the tension in her body lessen slightly.

"Now, can you tell me how this happened?" Patrick asked, taking a bottle of pills from his medical bag.

"Well, I've always been a clumsy one-"

"Mrs. Hawn, please. If you won't tell me what really happened, don't tell me a lie. A patient needs to be completely honest with a doctor if we are to treat accurately."

Sally Hawn glanced nervously at the police constable. "I won't say anything with him in the room."

The police officer turned to go. It was no use forcing a woman to speak out against her husband. He'd found that often it just made things worse. These poor women were trapped in their violent lives. Very few would have the strength stand up to their abusive husbands. As he reached the door, they could hear Ned Hawn storming up the stairs of the building.

"What the hell are you doin' in my house?" He roared. Ned Hawn was a large bear of a man. Young still, but years of drinking had made him seem much older than he was. His life had spun out of control and his only response was violence.

"What lies you tellin' em'? Get outta my house, the lot of you!"

"Mr. Hawn, I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you a few questions." Patrick moved slightly, blocking Sally from her husband's view.

"I said get outta my house," the large man exploded. Suddenly, he threw his fist at Patrick, knocking him down. The constable jumped in trying to restrain the angry, drunken man. Sally jumped back, crying out, "No, Ned, you'll only make it worse!"

"Bloody hell," Patrick growled, standing up. His hand to his cheek, he continued, "Mr. Hawn, sit down!"

Ned Hawn pulled his arms out of the constable's reach. He had lost all sense of reason. "Who the 'ell d'ya think you are? I said, get outta my house!" He pulled his muscled arm back, preparing another strike. Moving quickly, Patrick curled his fist and struck the man in the middle of his face. It was a swift, precise blow, and the large man slid to the floor.

The constable caught him as he fell, looking up at Patrick with something like amazement. "I think you've broken his nose!"

"With a little luck, I've also knocked him out cold long enough for us to get this under control." He turned to the stunned women. Sally Hawn's mother shook herself and said,"I'll call the station."

"Good idea. Constable?" Patrick asked.

"Yeah, tell 'em we'll need a wagon to get him to the station."

* * *

Two hours later, Patrick let himself into his house. Tonight, he definitely did not want to wake Shelagh. He preferred to save questions until the morning. Quietly, on stockinged feet, he made his way to the kitchen. The ice pack he had gotten at the police station was no longer helping. He made a new one, and started his way up the stairs. Stopping in the bathroom, he changed out of his clothes. There was blood on his shirt and tie, but that was nothing unusual. Shelagh had long since mastered the ability to remove stains from his clothes. He looked at his left eye. The cheekbone was already showing a terrific bruise, and his eye had started to swell. Opening the cabinet, he took some aspirin, hoping that it would help stop the throbbing headache.

Perhaps it was the headache, but he didn't notice the light coming from under the bedroom door. So he was surprised when he saw Shelagh asleep sitting up, her book fallen to her side. As usual, she had gone back to bed on his side, a habit she had started to warm the bed for his return. He grinned gingerly. Now if he could only get the light off and slip into the bed without waking her, he could postpone the scene he knew was coming.

Lights off, Patrick crept over to her usual side of the bed and slowly slid under the covers. The ice bag rattled, and Shelagh stirred. He tensed, willing her back to sleep.

It didn't work. Shelagh sighed, "Sweetheart. You're back." She snuggled up against his right side. "How was it? Everyone safe?"

"Fine. Dislocated shoulder. Not very eventful. Go back to sleep."

"I thought you were going to make it up to me?" she purred, pressing against him. "Patrick, why are you on my side of the bed? I've made your side warm."

He kissed the top of her head. "I love you. Go back to sleep. We can talk in the morning."

Shelagh turned closer to him, putting her hand over his heart. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Just tired." The ice bag was starting to drip down his ear. He would have to be patient until she fell back asleep. Then her hand slipped up his chest to caress his cheek.

"What on earth?" she cried. Shelagh sat up and pulled the bedside lamp on, searching for her glasses. Turning back to him, she gasped. "Patrick! What happened to you?" She squinted in the dim light to see his wound.

"It's nothing. It looks worse than it is. Ned Hawn got a little out of control. Fortunately, the police took him to the station. He can dry out, and maybe Sally's mother can talk some sense into her about kicking him out."

"Little chance of that, I'm afraid." She reached over and took the ice bag in her hand. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Shelagh tenderly pressed it to his face. They sat quietly for a few moments. "Does it hurt very much?" she asked.

"It's better now I'm here with you," he smiled.

Smiling back, Shelagh leaned in and kissed him. "I love you."

"I love you, too." He brought his hand up to cover hers on his cheek. "Is it so bad?" he asked.

"You'll have a lot of questions to answer to out on the street-Patrick! Your hand!"

"What?" He looked down on his hand and saw the evidence from his blow across Ned Hawn's nose. Damn. He'd forgotten all about that.

"Patrick." Her voice was controlled. He's have to be careful answering her questions. "If Ned punched you in the face, why are your knuckles bloody?" She stared hard at him. "Patrick," she started,"did you hit him?"

Best tear the plaster off quickly, he thought. "Yes."

"Ned Hawn must weigh five stone more than you! Patrick, what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that we had to stop him before he hit anyone else!" He heard his voice rise, and brought it down. All he needed to make this scene perfect was Timothy coming in with a barrage of questions. "Shelagh, he was out of control, I had to act quickly. I knocked him down, we were able to subdue him, and now he's at the station. His wife is safe, and I'm home in my bed. Can we stop talking about this now?"

They sat silently, each settling their nerves. After a few moments, Shelagh caught his eye and asked, "You knocked him down?"

Patrick smirked. "One punch. Broke his nose. Of course, I had to set it for him before they took him away."

"Patrick!" Shelagh's breath caught on his name.

He sensed a change in her. Curious to see where this was going, Patrick added, " Gave him a black eye with it."

"No!" her voice was husky. "Patrick, I never thought...One punch?"

"Yes. One punch." His wife was definitely acting differently. "Who knows, the other eye will probably be bruised by morning."

"Really?" Shelagh moved, suddenly sitting above him. "A broken nose and two black eyes with one punch? Patrick, you are full of surprises!" She giggled. "Well, dearest, I'm sure a knight in shining armour like you can certainly find the strength to make good on a promise to his wife!"


	2. Chapter 2

I thought this story was complete, but then realized no Call the Midwife SxP story is really complete without a little Timothy sass. Thanks for the lovely support!

The next morning, as Shelagh ladled porridge into a bowl for Timothy, he asked, "Where's Dad?"

"He had a call last night. I thought to let him sleep in a bit." She blushed, knowing it wasn't just the call that had kept Patrick up last night. She sat down and refreshed her cup of tea.

"Timothy, dear, there's something you should know. You may hear something in school, and I'd like you to know the facts from us." There was an awkward pause. How did one tell a young boy that his father, a respected man of the community, had slugged a drunken brute?

"Hmmm?" Timothy was only lending her half an ear. The cricket standings were open in front of him.

"On that call last night, there was a bit of trouble."

"Mmhmm."

"Timothy, please. Could you look at me when I'm speaking to you?" Immediately, she regretted asking this. It might be easier if he wasn't looking at her. She plunged in, "Timothy, the call was a bit unusual last night, and got a little unpleasant. The police were called in, and a man who had been, well, drinking"

"You mean a drunk man did something?"

"Yes." Deep breath. "A drunk man hit your father and now he has a bit of a shiner." Secretly, she smiled at her use of slang.

"Blimey! Dad has a black eye!"

"Timothy, language," she scolded half-heartedly. "Yes, he has a black eye, but that's not the whole story. Apparently, the man intended to strike at your father again, and, only in self-defense, mind, your Dad had to stop him somehow, well, your father had to hit him back."

Timothy's eyes were round, his mouth opened, stunned. Shelagh took this moment to continue. "Now, of course, your father would never have done something like this in the usual course of events. But the situation was out of hand, and he had to act quickly. There were women-"

"Dad hit someone?"

"Yes."

"Did he stop the man from hitting anyone else?"

"Yes."

They sat in silence for a moment. Shelagh wasn't sure how to read Timothy. "The police took the man away, and everything settled down pretty quickly. So, if anyone asks you about-"

"Did he knock the man down?" Timothy interrupted.

"Yes."

Silence.

"Did the man get back up?"

"No."

"But he wasn't a very big man, was he?"

"Actually, he was quite large."

More silence. Timothy sat like a statue. "Timothy, dearest, I know this is upsetting, but your father would never have done something like this unless it had been completely necessary."

"I can't believe it," he mumbled.

Just then, they heard Patrick's feet on the stairs. Her men would never be spies, Shelagh thought to herself. They couldn't take a set of steps quietly to save a life. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Please don't make much of this, Timothy."

Patrick entered the room. "Oi, Dad!" The bruise had deepened overnight, and Patrick did resemble a street brawler.

"Good morning to you, too, Tim."

Timothy stood and walked up to closely examine his dad. Patrick sighed, "Tim, I am not an exhibit at the zoo. Could you please sit down and finish your breakfast? You _do_ have school this morning." He kissed Shelagh's cheek and took his seat at the table.

Timothy continued to stare while his father pointedly ignored him. He accepted a cup of tea from his wife, saying, "I can minimize my calls today, but I'm afraid there is the clinic today. I won't get anything done with all the gossiping and whispers."

Shelagh chuckled. "I'm sorry, Patrick, dearest, but you have to expect it. Something like this doesn't happen in Poplar every day. You're bound to get some 'hail the conquering hero!'"

"Dad," Timothy asked, "is it true that you knocked him down?"

Yes, Tim, I did. But-"

"But how? I mean, no disrespect, but Dad, how on earth..?"

Patrick put his teacup down. He was slightly annoyed, but not, he thought, for the right reasons. "What do you mean _how_? I _was_ in the Army, Tim!"

"Medical Corps," Tim groused. "You had to fix people, not hit them."

"They did teach us rudimentary self-defense, you know." Patrick's ego surfaced. "And I do have a fairly strong understanding of human anatomy. That said, I'd think that I could be a pretty formidable foe in the ring."

Timothy was still too stunned to laugh at the joke. Shelagh, however, was not. Standing by the sink, she started to laugh, and could not stop. Patrick rose and crossed over to his wife. Blocking her from his son's view, he whispered, "I should think _you'd_ see it that way, Mrs. Turner. You revealed a rather bloodthirsty side last night, if I remember. A black eye seems a small price to pay."

Blushing again, Shelagh kissed his bruise.

"Really? Again?" Timothy complained. "I don't think that sort of thing is really necessary this early in the morning!"

And with that, all returned to normal in the Turner house that morning.


End file.
